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Poem	All night they whine upon their ropes and boom against the dock with helpless prows: these little ships that are too worn for sailing front the wharf but do not rest at all. Tugging at the dim gray wharf they think no doubt of China and of bright Bombay, and they remember islands of the East, Formosa and the mountains of Japan. They think of cities ruined by the sea and they are restless, sleeping at the wharf. Tugging at the dim gray wharf they think no less of Africa. An east wind blows and salt spray sweeps the unattended decks. Shouts of dead men break upon the night. The captain calls his crew and they respond-- the little ships are dreaming--land is near. But mist comes up to dim the copper coast, mist dissembles images of the trees. The captain and his men alike are lost and their shouts go down in the rising sound of waves. Ah little ships, I know your weariness! I know the sea-green shadows of your dream. For I have loved the cities of the sea, and desolations of the old days I have loved: I was a wanderer like you and I have broken down before the wind.
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